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Srikantha Babu was impervious to rudeness or insolence. There was at the time a singer of some repute retained in our establishment. When the latter was the worse for liquor he would rail at poor Srikantha Babu's singing in no very choice terms. This he would bear unflinchingly, with no attempt at retort.
Nor did such bargaining sound at all incongruous in that unbending English establishment, so naïve was Srikantha Babu, so unconscious of any possibility of giving offence. He would sometimes take me along to a European missionary's house.
His inseparable companions were a hubble-bubble at his left, and a sitar on his lap; and from his throat flowed song unceasing. Srikantha Babu had no need to wait for a formal introduction, for none could resist the natural claims of his genial heart. Once he took us to be photographed with him in some big English photographic studio.
I am sure Gobinda Babu, the superintendent, would have shown more respect for my effort on so serious a subject. In singing I was Srikantha Babu's favorite pupil. He had taught me a song: "No more of Vraja for me," and would drag me about to everyone's rooms and get me to sing it to them.
If one hears to-day that some young lady does not write poems one feels sceptical. Poetry now sprouts long before the highest Bengali class is reached; so that no modern Gobinda Babu would have taken any notice of the poetic exploit I have recounted. Srikantha Babu At this time I was blessed with a hearer the like of whom I shall never get again.
As any piece of stone is good enough for the freshet to dance round and gambol with, so the least provocation would suffice to make him beside himself with joy. Once I had composed a hymn, and had not failed to make due allusion to the trials and tribulations of this world. Srikantha Babu was convinced that my father would be overjoyed at such a perfect gem of a devotional poem.
When he sang this to my father Srikantha Babu got so excited that he jumped up from his seat and in alternation violently twanged his sitar as he sang: "For He is the heart of our hearts" and then waved his hand about my father's face as he changed the words to "For you are the heart of our hearts."
He was descended from a family of Brahmans surnamed Udambaras. His wonderful memory and vast erudition soon procured for him the title of Srikantha or Minerva-throated. He soon removed to the court of Ujjayini, where before the celebrated Mahakala all his plays were acted. He wrote the Viracharita, the Uttarramacharita and the Malati-Madhava.
When at last the man's incorrigible rudeness brought about his dismissal Srikantha Babu anxiously interceded for him. "It was not he, it was the liquor," he insisted. He could not bear to see anyone sorrowing or even to hear of it.
I have told of my father's amusement on hearing from Srikantha Babu of my maiden attempt at a devotional poem. I am reminded how, later, I had my recompense. On the occasion of one of our Magh festivals several of the hymns were of my composition. One of them was "The eye sees thee not, who art the pupil of every eye...." My father was then bed-ridden at Chinsurah.
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